


Just a Moment

by Fuguestate



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV), The Shape of Water (2017)
Genre: Community: intoabar, Gen, TSOW spoilers, intra-universe shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuguestate/pseuds/Fuguestate
Summary: In which "stranger" is both a noun and a comparative.For the Into A Bar challenge:  Dmitri Mosenkov walks into a bar and meets... Willow Rosenberg.





	Just a Moment

"Wait for our call. Shouldn't be much longer."

That was the last thing Mihalkov said to him before leaving minutes ago, and now Dmitri stands, infuriatingly helpless in his boxers and sock garters in his apartment's living room while he strains his ears for footsteps returning to his door, or the click of a gun being cocked. His fingers are cramped where they clutch the ridiculously inadequate butter knife he'd hidden behind his back, but it was what he'd had, and it takes another three minutes ticking slowly around the clock before he relaxes enough to put it down.

He'd never particularly liked his handler to begin with, or the lummox he kept to do his dirty work. Mihalkov always seemed to delight in making him uncomfortable, and rarely if ever acknowledged the work he put into his assignments. If it couldn't be boiled down to a yes/no equation that benefited Russians or harmed Americans, he didn't want to hear about it. Dmitri had always known this, but hadn't truly appreciated the absolutism of that attitude until his involvement with the creature they'd brought to Occam Labs. What he'd learned had driven him to finally disobey his orders, and now he's all but certain Mihalkov knows that he did. For the first time, Dmitri thinks there's a very real possibility his own handler might kill him.

It doesn’t matter that Mihalkov was _wrong_ , as wrong as Strickland, and he'd had no choice but to do what he did. It's left him trapped, now, between two governments who would cheerfully destroy each other for the pleasure of executing him for his betrayal if they ever found proof of it.

It's the last thing he needs, but God, he wants a drink.

-

Two cigarettes later, he's steady enough to dress properly and head downstairs. The taxi driver takes in his glasses and pressed shirt along with the request for "a decent bar" and drives him to an area on the fringes of upscale, with a reassuring mix and density of people. The bar itself has a good number of large windows in the front, and none of the obnoxious neon signage that always grates on his nerves. He pays the driver to come back in a few hours, and goes inside.

The establishment is small, and neat, and the lighting is good without being harsh. There's a pleasantly low hum of conversations that makes barely a ripple as he walks in. He spots an open space at the back of the bar and heads there, past a young woman. He has to look at her twice; her hair had seemed white for just a moment, in a cascade over her shoulders, but now he sees it's shorter, and a striking red. She smiles at him briefly when he sits, then returns her attention to her drink. 

The bartender looks to him and he rather spontaneously orders from the top shelf. It's close enough to what he remembers from home that the first burn going down his throat brings to mind much happier years, and he has to blink back the emotion it evokes.

"They've got good stuff here."

The young woman is looking into the middle distance over the bar, smiling a bit sadly.

Manners war with caution – there's no telling who could be watching him – but it's easy enough to offer a noncommittal nod. "Evidently." He takes another sip, savoring it, and lets his memory drift for a moment. Inexplicably, a thought flickers into his mind of an older woman talking about a little tree.

The young woman's smile gains a layer of amusement. "My name's Willow."

He pauses. "…Robert."

Willow tilts her head, considering. "I'm sorry that name hurts you. I'd offer you another one," she perks up, but then subsides again, "but mine usually end up overly complicated or unintentionally funny." She shrugs it off. "Pleased to meet you anyway." 

He blinks, trying to absorb that. Abruptly his thoughts are interrupted with an impression of a smiling dark-haired man in a loud shirt and a petite blonde who brandishes weaponry against… What the hell did they put in his drink? He shoves it away and struggles to his feet, glaring at her; how could he have been so stupid, of course they'd find a way to dispose of him, even in a public place—

"Oh – that's so beautiful…" He stops as an awestruck expression blooms across this strange woman's face, completely unlike what he'd expect in an attacker. "They're _dancing_. To the Glenn Miller Orchestra. They're trying to touch through the glass." she smiles through the tears that have come to her eyes. "That's why you're here."

Her words penetrate his survival instincts enough for him to recall that he never gave those details to his handler, or anyone else. He couldn't possibly – it had been an almost transcendent moment he'd stumbled upon between Occam's cleaning woman and the being he wanted so desperately to save. No one but he knew he'd been there; of this, he was certain. But how did she--

"It's all right." Willow wipes briefly at her eyes, sobering. "It's just what this place does. Nothing here will hurt you, just - listen." Her hands come up in a non-threatening gesture as she looks at him. "It goes both ways, but you have to let yourself _listen_. She said you're a good man when you helped them, and I believe it. You can do it."

He slows with the wall at his back, trying to regain control. The other bar patrons remain unperturbed, and he feels none of the telltale symptoms of being drugged or poisoned. No one makes a move toward him, so he stops.

And listens.

_Being young, smart, a misfit. Few but deep friendships. Monsters, so many horrific things from – what's a Hellmouth? Demons, demons are real, vampires, werewolves (loved one, it hurt so much), grinning fairy tale monsters and secrets, always secrets, how can this be normal, a childhood riddled with horror and death and in the middle of it a girl, someone beautiful who ought to be popular and cruel but isn't, someone who can fight against such terrifying things, someone who sees value in misfits, a friend, a protector – the glittery umbrella she loved so much, one chosen in all the world. Growing up and growing stronger, finding magic and finding **her** , Tara (nonononononono), having power but it's too much, obvious now but not then, so many things done wrong and loss, so much loss…_

**Stop.**

He reels, looking up in horror. "What _are_ you?"

The girl looks back at him and for a moment her eyes burn black, and for a moment she glows bright as the sun. Then she's just a young woman, giving him an arch look. "Gemini, with Capricorn rising." She smiles suddenly, taking pity on him. "I'm a witch, if your science-y brain is okay with hearing that. I don't know if magic is a thing where you're from, but it is for me."

Part of Dmitri's brain – a distressingly _small_ part – is screaming at him to get out of there, get somewhere safe and try to shake off whatever hallucinogen he's been given. The rest of him thinks of the amphibian man, and all the things he thought were impossible before encountering him, and he can't help but want to know _more_ , to study and question and quantify what's happening.

Willow nudges his drink toward him, and folds her hands with an expectant look that's almost childlike. He fights her infectious enthusiasm, but finds himself resuming his seat all the same.

More impressions make themselves known, and they're frankly odd enough that he decides to test them. "Why was your school principal acting like a teenager?"

"Ugh… the Band Candy Incident." Willow makes a face while one hand tries to chase the memory away. "Long story. Wizard, demon, cursed candy. Our parents still won't talk about it, and we're all kind of okay with that."

Dmitri is just looking at her. He wonders if he should press, but the image of a middle-aged man diving shirtless off of a stage into a drunken crowd gives him pause. He's still not convinced, though, and tries - "Frogs."

Willow flinches with a shudder. "Eugh. Nope – nope, nope, frog fear." Her eyes narrow. "Crooked teeth."

It's Dmitri's turn to flinch, and his head tosses as though to shake off the thought. "Disgusting!" He tries again, seeing "…Four of you… Four joining together as parts of a whole, against – Frankenstein's monster?" He feels absurd saying it, but she's nodding.

"Close enough. Proof that government labs and demons are un-mixy things." She pauses as though hearing something. "But you'd probably know that – you gave her the key so she could get Him out of one. He's a capitalized "He" for you? …Oh, jeez, you almost had to _kill_ Him." Her eyes are pained. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right," he automatically tries to deflect her sympathy, but then he sees, "You lost her. And then yourself." His eyes widen slowly, and she shrinks a little in reaction to it. "You – oh god, you _hurt_ so much, you were trying to end all of it - but you were stopped by a… broken yellow crayon?" He squints, not understanding at all.

She finds a smile as he says it. "My best friend Xander kept me from crying about breaking a crayon when we met in kindergarten – that's when we _became_ best friends. That memory helped him save me when I was… like that. And whoa, you go right for the heavy stuff, don't you?" She takes a deep breath and braces her hands flat on the bar. "Maybe let's try for something happy, like, hm. Twinkies?"

"Oh…" Just the thought of them is wonderful. "My weakness – I love them." He catches himself smiling for a moment, but then stops. "What is this? What's happening?"

"We're in a nexus – a place where energies converge. Everyone here," she tilts her head, "is meant to be here, wherever or _when_ ever they're from." She says it so naturally, as though none of it sounds insane at all. He chances another glance around, and sees for the first time that some people look slightly… _different_ ; clothing and hair don't quite match what he's used to seeing on some, and others he simply can't focus on at all, though their conversational companions don't seem to notice anything. 

"You're a first-timer," she says. "It gets easier to see some people if you stay for a while, or come back."

"Oh, I’m certain." He doesn’t try to hide his suspicion.

"Hey, if you want to risk Lovecraftian nightmares from sudden overexposure to the supernatural, you be my guest. This place is just trying to be polite, is all."

He considers that a moment, and subsides. "Why are you here?"

She takes a slow inhale. "Finding peace, really - you saw why. I wind up here every now and then, and it helps."

"What about me?"

She studies him, and says, simply, "Maybe you just need someone to talk to."

Her open expression, tinged with pain even when she smiles, pulls at something inside him that recognizes itself. He can't remember the last time he was able to just _talk_ with anyone – interactions have always been delicately choreographed on a knife's edge, even with the people he was supposed to be able to trust. Everything he's done, especially now, has served to isolate him from nearly everything that could have offered comfort. The aching loneliness hits him all at once.

"…I don't know what I'm doing anymore."

She puts her hand near his arm, not quite touching. "That's not always a bad thing." Her faint smile has far too many years behind it on such a young face. "Believe me, certainty can make for some really bad decisions."

He shakes his head, accepting that he's somehow fallen down a rabbit hole, but finding no peace in it. "Whatever I have been," he says to no one in particular, "I am a scientist. What is my purpose, if not to find certainty?"

"Maybe it's to find better questions to ask."

He sees her as she used to be, just for a moment – excelling at math and science herself, surrounded by and also barricaded within concrete, quantifiable concepts while the inexplicable raged all around. He thinks again about what he's done, throwing half his training to the wind in the name of saving someone who should have been impossible, but he could only see as beautiful. The creature and his tiny, brave rescuer come to mind again, and he reflects with a lump in his throat that now, at least, they might be able to touch when they dance to her old records.

He'll likely die for what he's done. For all he knows, this is all just a series of signals from misfiring synapses as he succumbs to an assassination he never saw coming. But even if it is – even if he dies – he knows he did that one good thing.

"I suppose I can live with that."

_ -fin- _

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted a chance to give Dmitri a weird-yet-good-for-him moment, and had a lot of fun with this. :) Details for Dmitri taken from the film and Guillermo del Toro's biography for him; details for Willow taken from a few episode re-viewings and the best of my rusty memory...


End file.
